Awakening of Dreams
by Ghibli
Summary: Coffee, a case to haunt them both, the dreams to match. And a breakfast shared both of exhaustion, and something else. GSR
1. Chapter 1

Title: Awakening of dreams.

Summary: Coffee, a case to haunt them both, the dreams to match. And a breakfast shared both of exhaustion, and something else.

A/N: References to Nesting Dolls

I wasn't sure about posting this for a multitude of reasons. For those who have occasionally asked about this story, and complained about how I shouldn't let it die on the harddrive: Here it is. Thank you for the support.

I

A briefcase sat on the floor, huddled in the shadows of a mahogany colored desk. The locks were in place, its content safe. It stood there on its own, a scuff on the leather the lone witness of an earlier argument with the concrete floor.

Silence reigned, the oppressive non-noise broken only by a discorded harmony of a fire truck's siren and a blackbird's chirp. The lights were off, except for the designer table lamp beside the couch. It cast a soft glow, too eerily romantic for the situation. For he was beside it, reclined and exhausted, solitary. And thinking about the last days, weeks.

He closed his eyes, hoping that his migraine wouldn't blossom this time. A 'once a year' occurrence had rapidly descended into a once-a-week event, stealing what little energy he had left. Difficulty falling asleep wasn't the problem. It was the erratic and rude awakenings that were forced upon him by his subconscious that exhausted him. Dreams convoluting into nightmares woke him up, and seven hours in bed resulted in a maximum of three hours of sleep. The rest was spent awake, with eyes so tightly closed that the landscape behind his eyelids consisted of black and white pixels, and flashes of some unidentifiable color that instigated the migraines even further.

The palms of his hands dug into the sockets of his eyes, irrationally hoping that the pain could be pushed away, that the images hunting him could be crushed into thousands of fragments. He soon gave up and dragged himself from the couch to the percolator. The caffeine helped him on occasion, and he could only hope that this would be one of those times. Sara's expression from months ago still hunted him, even though, when asked, he wouldn't acknowledge it of his own volition. Once again, she had found a way inside of him, except this time it wasn't with a smile or coy glance, or pointed remark.

The stark fear that had been in her eyes had become permanently etched on his mind, and no desperate wishing for it to go away would succeed in rendering it gone. While measuring out the ground coffee beans, images of a ceramic shard pressed against her neck merged with twisted and magnified mental photographs, perpetrators mingling between scenes, and the blood flowed. It flowed so, so much.

Arterial sprays creating chaotic patters were interspersed with scenes where it calmly trickled down her neck, over and around her finger which were powerless in stopping the flow. One moment she would be standing, her neck naked except for the arm Sometimes she would mouth some word, or perhaps a phrase, but his lip reading skills would be gone, and he couldn't understand what she was trying to tell him. He would squint, cursing his age for he couldn't make out the words. Too far away, the glare of the glass hindering him in seeing her drawn mouth. Over and over she would form the same declaration. Oh, how he irrationally wanted it to be 'I love you'. But that couldn't be true; it would be too melodramatic, too final. And then suddenly, he knew what she was saying.

'I hate you.'

Over and over and over again, and the fear was no longer for the ceramic shard that was still pressed against her carotid. It was of him. She was frightened of him.

The last few gurgles of the coffee machine interrupted the images and his kitchen came back in clear view, the normally appetizing smell of fresh coffee not settling well with his frayed nerves. He swallowed against the bile in his throat and blindly sought out a bottle in his fridge, then staggered onto one of the barstools at the kitchen counter. No aspirin or prescribed drugs would be of help now.

He held up the cool water bottle against his temple for a moment, and then twisted off the cap, letting the water warm a little in his mouth before swallowing it down. As experience had taught him, a gulp of near ice-cold water would only exacerbate his migraine. He took some deep breaths, slowly breathing in through his nose, out through slightly pursed lips. If only he could…

Could what? A tiny huff escaped him and his shoulders sagged, hopelessness surrounding his every fiber. Time travel wasn't an option. Even if it had been, one corrected mistake might spawn ten new 'situations', each possibly far more cruel than the previous. He wouldn't take that risk, no matter how tempting. She had already gone through enough in this reality.

His cellphone rang, the sound quickly overpowering the silence, save for the groan that came from its owner. He was tempted to leave it be, let it play out its melody until the caller simply gave up, but who knew how long that would take. Best to pick it up, answer gruffly and hope that the resulting 'talk' was brief and to the point. No such luck, he supposed. Not with the woman on the other end.

"Catherine, how may I help you." Tiredness crept into his voice, and the greeting came out less friendly than it should, he supposed, when talking to a long-time friend.

---

A multitude of bugs and larvae had infested the weathered tent, and the body which once was wasn't any longer. The heat and carnivorous/carrions had done a terrific job of mutilating the corpse. And here he was, dropping samples of different types in scalding coffee or jars with beef jerkies, preserving them for further study. Dead or alive, they each had their uses. The medication he took before heading out here was slowly starting to kick in, and Grissom hoped he would be able to keep focused on the categorization and observation of their maturity cycles.

He left after having gathered what he needed in order to produce an accurate time line, leaving the others from swing shift behind in their search for further evidence.

---

He deposited the array of bugs and larvae in his office and entered the break room, fully intent on finding another bottled water and fresh, prime coffee. And for once, luck was in his favor. Partially, at any rate, for the subject of his dreams and nightmares was there too, crime scene pictures splayed out in front of her on the coffee table. He poured both himself and her a generous cup of coffee and carefully made his way to the couch.

"Here." Setting the cups down, he tore open a sachet of sugar for both their coffees. "Didn't I ask you to go home this morning?" He held up one of the photographs and glanced at the woman on it.

"You did." She blew a little on the hot liquid and then sipped it, grateful for the caffeine and sugar boost. " Thanks for the coffee." Knowing what he was about to ask, she continued. "Mary-Ann Landsworth. She had a habit of tripping down the stairs, walking into walls. Terribly clumsy, according to her husband who, coincidentally, has inherited the entire estate and four million dollars in life insurance."

Grissom pursed his lips and looked up at her for a moment and she let out a sigh. "Just look at this, Grissom. Facial fractures, broken ribs, torn ankle tendons, even internal bleeding. They all knew, and just let him get away with it. Even their daughter has been in the hospital with bruised ribs and a broken nose. Where was Child's Services this time 'round?"

He sat back in the couch and propped an arm up on the back. With his thumb and index finger supporting his temple, his gaze was soft and inquisitive, but not demanding. Or expecting. Just… kind.

"Sara, you…" His jaw shifted a little and narrowed his lips, obviously deviating from his initial train of thought. "Okay, what else have you got? You have established a possible motive, but for the moment, not much else."

Her eyes narrowed, but she didn't shift away from him or his gaze.

"I'm not discounting your theory; with their past history, it seems more than likely, and I trust your instincts. But you know that we need more if we want to convince a judge. Go home, cut back on the caffeine," he winked, "and come back next shift." He stood, the fatigue becoming more apparent to him all the time.

"You okay?"

Concern was evident in her eyes; those deep, expressive chocolate eyes that showed her soul even if she had tried to blanket it. And as he looked at her, he wavered between voicing the standard reply of 'I'm fine' and some excuse, or perhaps saying what he really was feeling. Exhaustion, desperation.

And hurt. Clenching, squeezing, needle-sharp pain that had wound its way around his heart, it seemed, keeping it in a vice-like grip so that he couldn't breathe properly. Not here, not with her standing before him, looking so soft and delicate and tenacious. Not when all he could remember were her eyes looking at him with terror inscribed, and venom spilling from her lips. Not when he wanted to grab her and beg, plead for her to say that she still… cared.

In the end, his common sense prevailed, but his hand rested on her upper arm in a silent caress. "I'll be fine, nothing that a few hours of sleep won't fix." As he reached the doorway he turned and looked at her in silence for a while, seemingly memorizing her features." Go home, Sara. Please." And gone he was, leaving her wondering about his intentions once more.


	2. Chapter 2

II

Days progressed, and the dreams had lessened to a degree, allowing him to sleep through the night in a relatively restful pose. The blood no longer trickled, she no longer spoke words in stark fear, nor stared at him in fright while he stood there, looking her in the eye. No longer did she defend herself against him.

Her hands no longer connected forcefully with the sensitive skin of his cheek, nor did they seek out his shirt and tug at it desperately, trying to flee his stoic silence and murderous rage. He had accepted that she was no longer amongst the living.

And that it had been him who had taken her life.

Michael Landsworth woke up and went about his routine, gaining more confidence each day that he wouldn't be caught. He hadn't meant to kill her, he reflected, but she had had a hand in her own death. She was so goddamn stubborn and whiney. Lord, she was whiney. Nothing he ever did satisfied her. If he came home an hour early, she would complain why he hadn't called her beforehand. If he had to work overtime, which he felt was a reasonable risk when being the manager of a well-visited bookstore, she wouldn't greet him when he joined them in their bed. Hell, he even slept in the guest room too many times to count. _Fucking frigid bitch. _

And then the sulking. That high pitched voice that would drone on and on and on, never stopping until he had to shut her up, for his own sanity. Really, who could tolerate such drivel and behavior from their spouse? He tried. Oh, he really tried. Walking away when she would bitch about the latest balance on their joint account. The money was in both their names, so why _shouldn't_ he spend some of that on the pleasures of life? A good bottle of Chateau Petrûs, cigars, an ageing Scottish whiskey. He made the money, and he damn well had a fair share in saying what it was used for, too.

Mary-Ann had the house, the children, a steady and stress-free routine, and on top of that, enough money to sustain her just fine. So why wouldn't she just keep quiet? He didn't consider himself a violent man. In fact, he was renowned at work for his seemingly never-ending patience and general gentleness. The birthday and holiday cards from all the families, the phone calls and parties he was invited too…granted, the others liked to see Mary-Ann as well, but that was only because she was his wife and he had introduced her to them. She was a plain Jane with just enough pretty features to keep others interested. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he still hadn't meant for her to die. Who else would take care of his little girl now, and keep the house looking as fine as it did?

---

His hand snuck underneath her jacket, around her waist and pulled her to him, their faces ending up inches away from one another. So close, yet much too far away. Everything around them; the few footsteps, a clanging door and raised voices, everything faded into oblivion. Everything except for his cobalt eyes meeting her beautifully intense chocolate eyes which radiated…something. Lust, desire, wanton need. They certainly no longer carried the hatred and disgust from before, nor the fear. And maybe, just maybe, that other, almost coveted, four letter word lingered in her eyes too. But that didn't matter, not now. Not when they were still apart and all he could think about was how her lips would feel, and taste, and slide so hot and wet against his own.

A flush full of desire, feral and wild, ran down his body and it was almost as though she knew what he wanted, for in a flash she grabbed his shirt and yanked him forward and then her lips were on his, kissing him. These kisses, they were straight out of his dreams; passionate and hot and so damn good. Tasting faintly of chocolate and coffee, his tongue ran over her lips almost desperately, and she opened her mouth eagerly. Teeth clinked lightly and they pulled back, each wearing a slightly embarrassed smile.

"It took you long enough," she murmured. A charming and shy, but sexy, half smile appeared on his features before growing into that all too rare full-out smile, and almost in symmetry, a brilliant smile blossomed on her face too. A smile so beautiful and heartwarming that he couldn't resist kissing, tasting it again, and they resumed their hot and hungry probing of each other's mouth, albeit it less hastily than before.

His jacket was somehow removed and laid discarded next to them, and her long fingers splayed in his nape, nails teasingly scratching the skin there. He moaned into her mouth, slid his hand down her thigh and tugged it up, creating such a perfect cradle for him. And then she moved against him, clothed and all, but that didn't matter. He was aroused, she was flushed, and he wanted nothing more than to be in her, loving her for all that he could, and all that she was worth. And that was the world. She meant the world to him. She always would.

The buttons of his shirt were no match for her deft hands and when her nails slid up his chest and tugged off the offending material, he couldn't control his animal instinct and groaned, his arousal becoming almost painful in his jeans. Not wanting to be presumptuous, but not being able to help himself either, his hands slid down her over her breasts, a quick but effective caress. They slid down to the button of her slacks and popped it open, sliding the zipper down too. Dark blue lace, so sensuously thin that it offered a tantalizing peek of the soft hair underneath, and his index finger rubbed it in soft spirals going down, down, down….

And then nothing but the incessant tune from his cell phone. The sensual images seeped from his mind's eye and his breathing slowly returned to normal, as his did the rest of his body. It had been a while since he had such dreams, and he wasn't sure why they had returned now. What he did know was that he much preferred these dream sequences over those he had experienced in the last few weeks. She had felt so real, so tangible, so provocative, yet shy. So wonderful and as near to perfection as he could ever wish for in any woman. Perfection didn't exist, but she came damn well near it for him.

Maybe it had been the conversations that they'd had over the last few days. While still on neutral territory, for that was what work was, it had occasionally strayed into that of the personal.

One particular conversation came to the forefront of his memories, one which they had while searching the library of a missing casino owner.

"_There must be hundreds of books here." Sara looked around and admired the mahogany English style library which was filled with everything from old manuscripts and rare first editions of Shakespearean plays to Terry Richardson's rather provocative photography books. "Quite the collection. Guess controversy wasn't a problem for him." _

"_Well, he owns the illustrated Kama Sutra. Perhaps his wife wasn't lying when she said he was a stud in the bedroom." _

"_And outside. She was rather proud of their achievements in the kitchen." Catching the look he threw her over his shoulder at this, the few dormant butterflies in her belly awoke and fluttered around aimlessly. _

_He didn't hear her walking on the rich Persian rug, but he sure felt the faint and comfortable warmth of her coming to stand alongside him. It had been missing for too long, and he relished it. His fingers skimmed the outside of the book before plucking it out of the row of other assorted titles. Leafing through it, the rather explicit images brought a handful of daydreams to his brain that he'd rather not have. At least not when standing so close to his in-dreams partner. _

"_Wow, those are uhm… I didn't think humans could do that. Seems I was wrong." _

_He could hear the slight astonishment in her voice, and couldn't suppress the soft chuckle that threatened to escape. Browsing through a few more pages, he held up another one for her to see. "I'm not sure how they managed this one either." _

_Putting the volume back in its place he brushed her arm a little, and a rush of warmth infused him. "These contemoprary versions, with the images and photography added, are far easier to understand than the more original versions." _

"_What, you read those?" She didn't expect a reply. She honestly didn't._

"_There's a Victorian version lurking somewhere on a bookcase, yes." And he couldn't believe he'd said that._

It really was not something he ever imagined himself to tell anyone, let alone her, but she had a way of drawing things out, of showing parts of himself that he preferred to remain private. Or perhaps his defenses had been steadily broken down, allowing him to be more of the man he used to be, and less of an anti-social hermit who never followed his heart when it came to Sara.

TBC…


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: To the reviewer who mentioned the Kama Sutra not being Victorian: One of the things I had planned to research was one when the first illustrated versions came out in England. Unfortunately, when the chapter was posted it slipped my mind and thus it was unclear/not completely correct. Sorry about that.

And oh, a great big thank you for those who have read and/or reviewed the chapters so far. You rock.

III

The house was clean and light, and the late evening's sunlight that shone through the windows gave everything the soft glow of purity. Paint canisters were dotted around on the floor and a paint-splattered stairway stood in a corner of the living room. Brass entered through the hallway and looked around, shuffling forward over the plastic sheets covering the marble tiles.

"Hey Gil, this reminds me of your place."

Up went an eyebrow in question, but Grissom didn't turn around to face him. " Care to explain that statement?"

"White, pristine, and bare."

Brass was feeling frustrated and pissed off, and he took it out on Grissom, who on all accounts didn't exactly look the picture of Perfect Health either.

He could have said how his townhouse was clean as a whistle, quite the opposite of how Brass's used to be. Or that there never had been empty bottles of Jack Daniels and cans of Budweiser spread around the place, both the witnesses and culprits of long, drunken ramblings and lonely nights.

"Jim…." His mouth opened and the bitter and stinging words that were mangling around in his mind were so close to come rolling out. Instead, Grissom chose not to confront Brass in a showdown of words and walked away. A tactic he had employed often, and which had the ability to create rifts between him and those he called friends.

Casting an eye along the bare room, some of which still bore the marks of this having been a house in which people had lived. And where a woman might have been murdered. Bright white squares dotted around on the walls, witnesses to taken-down painting of photographs. A dried, and nearly mummified spider was crumpled up in a corner, tossed between the skirting board and the plastic sheets. As he started to walk around, emerging himself in the task of observing, he saw Sara standing near the far end of the room, camera ready in her hands to document her findings.

"Sara?"

She turned rather abruptly, as though forgetting that he was there in the room with her. Or surprised that he paid attention to her. "Come take a look. This area here," her fingers hovered over the wall, "hasn't been painted yet. Forgotten, maybe. But there's some red cast-off here. I was just about to test it for blood."

Walking towards her, the intangible hold she had over him became clearer and clearer to him, and somewhere in his subconscious, the dreams were replaying itself, fast-forwarding to the most intense moments. And when she smiled at him, just a soft and gentle one, he had a sudden need to hold her close. Just for a single moment, a second. To feel her, to know how she felt in his arms, so that his dreams could even be more realistic in their submersive powers.

Holding up the swab confirming that the swab was blood, she looked at him. "I wonder how Landsworth will explain this."

"Sara, we don't know yet if this is the victim's blood. For all we know, it might be his'."

She sighed in frustration. "I know, I know, no jumping to conclusions. But damnit, Griss, why else would he move out of here so quickly, and plan on painting every single inch of this wall? He has to be covering up something." She held up the camera, and nodded towards the wall. "Could you…?"

He held the yellow marker in place while she documented the possible evidence.

Brass' voice rang out from a few feet away. "Grief, perhaps? Not all men are bastards and kill their wives, you know."

"Brass, I know that. But you've seen the guy. Interviewed him. Don't tell me you're convinced of his innocence!"

She shook her head as both Brass and Grissom looked at her. "Look, guys, I'm fine. It's not like I'd nail his ass for no reason." A grin errupted as she saw the dubious looks on her companions. "Honest! Let's just see what else we can find."

"What are you hoping to find? Some brand new incriminating evidence which will lock him up for life? Come on, Sara. Life doesn't work that way."

"With the removal of the furniture, there is a reasonable chance that we'll find new evidence that could secure a trial against him, Jim." Grissom was still standing close to Sara, seemingly forming a front against the sceptism that appeared to have invaded the detective.

"Fine. Just uh, just don't let this case consume you, Sara." Brass' eyes were fixed upon Sara, but flickered towards Grissom as well, silently letting him know that the piece of advice was valid for him too.

---

Regardless of all the coffee cups and sugar sachets strewn around, she felt tired. Not a tiredness that could be fixed by yet another double espresso, but one that screamed desperately for sleep. An uninterrupted, deep slumber that would allow her to simply rest. To let go of her frustration with everything she encountered on a near daily basis. The pain, the anguish, the sorrow. The flicker of hope that was simply too stubborn to die off.

It kept coiling in her gut, clawing and squeezing at her heart. She had tried to stay away from him, for the both of them. But when he had sought her out, when he would talk to her, reminiscent of days long past, her need for self-preservation and letting-go would war with her heart. With hope. And she was so, so tired of it.

He confused her too. Not that that was anything new, but it still threw her off balance on occasion. Reminding her that she shouldn't think ahead of the what the evidence was telling her, almost as though she was a rookie. And yet, he backed her up only minutes later when Brass questioned her ideas.

All the memories, feelings, uncertainties, and wasted chances were milling around, stoking up a fire that was difficult to be tamed. Hurt turned into anger, disappointment into resolve. Closing the file and logging out of the computer program she had been using, Sara stood up and walked in the direction of Grissom's office.

---

He was sitting behind his desk, which was once again crowded. Stacks of supply requests and bills waiting to be approved by a simple wiggle of the pen were piled haphazardly on the side, and current case reports sat in front of him. Sometimes, more often than he wanted to admit to himself, he wondered when the work of science had come to resemble that of an accountant. Budgets that had to be strictly adhered to, theoretical inventories that never quite matched up with the actual physical stock. Everything had to be signed off on. And the slighest discrepancy would come back and bite him in the ass. A thousand less swabs than ordered, and the lab technicians would come complaining, and he would have to account for the mistake. Petty things that only served to heighten his restlessness.

The clearing of her throat alerted him to her presence. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Of course. Have a seat." Seeing her close the door, a trickle of unease ran through him. "Found new evidence against Landsworth?"

"It's uhm… It's not about the case, Grissom. We need to talk."

Her voice was soft but resolved, and he resisted the lure of sitting nearer to her. Instead, he kept behind his desk and placed his hands on its surface, fingers entwined. A place he felt most comfortable, and allowed him to look her in the eye. Or away, if he needed to.

"I need you to do something for me." She looked up from her hands which had been busy fingering the case file she had brought as a form of distraction. Or reason, had she chickened out in the last minute.

He looked intrigued, but didn't say a word. His face said it all. 'Go on…'

"I need you to tell me where you stand. Where we stand. The last weeks, months even, you've been… you've confused me. We've talked, laughed… you made me laugh. You were so much like back when I met you, when I came here for you. Maybe it could even be interpreted as flirting. Yet it seemed like you sometimes withdrew, like you didn't want anything to do with me. You'd have said something and then, within a few seconds, you'd be back to being aloof and distant."

She bit her lip lightly, wondering if she'd perhaps said too much. But she was proud; she had done what she set out to do. She had asked him where they stood. Maybe she would get an explanation, or a few cryptic words. Or nothing. And all of them allowed her to make a choice, including the one option she had considered, but didn't necessarily want. Moving on, and away.

He heard her words, and they registered. But he had no idea how to react. How to tell her of his dreams, nightmares. Of his constant battle to fall asleep and forget about her, and his feelings. Only to wake up and having to try to put the images and feelings of loneliness and emptiness away.

As she has seen him do so often, his eyes closed and he sighed, a weary and bleak sound. Before, she would have walked out, not wanting to ride the emotional 'coaster till the end in trepidation of what she might hear. But this time she stayed, needing that bit of closure he might provide. That she wanted him to give her.

"Sara, I…" His lips parted slightly and then closed again, swallowing whatever words he wanted to say.

She saw how his eyes flitted away from her, over to some of the paperwork on his desk, the books that were placed randomly on shelves, back to his hands. Pretty much anywhere but at her. But he seemed to be trying, and so she waited.

TBC...


	4. Chapter 4

IV

And she had waited until the words had come, cryptic and ambiguous in the beginning. Later, when he had offered her breakfast at a quiet diner, the words had become infused with him, with the persona that had been repressed so often that the temporary freedom it was given confused him and made him insecure and scared. But Grissom had talked, and she had been patient. And she had spoken, and he had listened. The rift that had been between them seemed to have grown a bridge, albeit it a rather wonky and fragile one. But it was a bridge, and a start. And an answer she had sought, but never received.

The engine was shut off but the headlights remained on, illuminating the desert grasses and stone pavement in front. Turning her head to the side, she spoke. "So, how am I going to get to work tonight?"

He frowned, and she couldn't supress a smile. "Bet you didn't think of that, huh."

"I suppose I could drive you back to work, so that you can pick up your car."

Sensible solution, but it would mean the end of their breakfast/talk/date, or whatever their little outing could be called. Then again, she needed a bit of time to absorb and reorganise all the thoughts that were currently haphazardly twirling about in her mind.

"That'll work."

Again, the car was put in park, except this time Sara grabbed the doorhandle and pushed it open. Turning around, she took one last look at the driver and nodded a little, her features soft and shy. A face to fall in love with all over again, he thought.

"Sara…?"

"I had a nice time tonight," She grinned, "Or well, this morning. Thank you."

"The pleasure was entirely mine." His eyes locked on hers, and they stared at each other for a moment, conveying a deeper meaning than just the "So thank you" that followed.

---

The dreams were composed of home-video sequences, the ones you would sometimes take out of an old box and pop in the VCR; to watch footage from days gone by. Days where you were happy and smiling, where your dad would tower you high and mighty over the flower beds and twirl you around until you got so dizzy you'd have to stand still and get your bearing for a full minute.

They were days of simplicity and joy, of the sheer fun of being a young girl who thought she had it all. How naïve she had been.

The reality was anything but fairy-tale wonderful. And the dreams replayed those scenes too. The sequences would start with laughter, but end with eyes wide open in shock - or was it hatred? With that scent of copper which was so strong, she was still able to recollect it so many years later, manifesting itself in nightmares that she wouldn't wish upon her worst enemy.

She flipped over her pillow and curled up in bed, dragging the blanket tightly around her and tucking it around her shoulders. It was safe and warm and dark, and a welcome reprieve from the nightmares. Unfortunately, she was awake now, and trying to go back to sleep would be of no use. Either she would just toss and turn trying in vain to fall back into slumber, or she would actually succumb to the dreams, or nightmares, and be cranky when the time came to wake up.

She sat on the edge of the bed and hung her head, taking deep and slow breaths. Her hair felt lisp and gross, her tanktop and shorts were sticking too much to her body to be called comfortable. Three more hours until she had to get ready for work. A long shower, maybe some reorganizing of her books and clothes… It had the ability to provide the distraction she felt she needed.

The pearls of hot water splashed against her skin and she luxuriated in the feeling. The sounds of the water wooshing through the pipes, travelling through to the shower head before creating that near sensual cloak of steaming fog and angry water droplets. They calmed her somewhat, and she braced her hands on the tiled wall, ducking underneath the spray. Little rindles of liquid swivelled down her hair and over her shoulders, mingling with the rest of the water on her skin. With her head down, she followed the irregular patterns that some of the droplets chose to make, until they flowed over her ankle and heel onto the basin before they were swallowed up hungrily by the drain. If only that drain would swallow her nightmares as easily as the water.

'_Toute tête est un entrepôt, où dormant des statues de dieux et de démons de toute taillet et de tout âge, dont l'inventaire n'est jamais dressé.' _

The quote entered unbidden. 'Every mind is a warehouse, where images of gods and demons sleep, of every size and every age, of which an inventory has never been made.' Or something similar. For some reason, she remembered the French words perfectly, but the exact translation by a former professor had slipped right by her. The meaning however, was one that she was all too familiar with. Her mind harbored memories and demons dating back to her earliest years, and when they awoke from their dormancy and created havoc, peaceful sleep was out of the question. And there were always unfamiliar ones to appear a next time, just when she thought she had battled them all.

Why did the dreams appear now? Breakfast had gone so well, and she had felt somewhat freer, like she could breathe in deeply and smile without her imaginary facial mask cracking and her heart weeping at the pretense. Her real self could now acknowledge her more-than attraction without the rational part in her self screaming at her for setting herself up for heartache and disappointment.

Picking up her beach towel, as soft and luxurious as it was old, she huddled in its comfort and trudged back to bed. The shower had oddly worn her of energy, and she stretched on the bed, flipping over onto her stomach, her back a shield against all the horrors of life.

---

His fingers rubbed the tender skin underneath his eyes and he closed them for a few seconds, before reopening them again against the darkness of the room. Muffling a yawn he stretched and laid back down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

A fragile looking spider had started to weave a web between the lamp and the plaster, dangling from what seemed like a single strand of spider silk. Tenacious and magnificent in their complex simplicity, the little creature reminded Grissom of his earlier breakfast with Sara. The fact that she had stuck around for years on end still amazed him, and when he had sat across her in the dinner, he told her so. He even tried to explain some of his behavior, for as far as that had been possible. Seeing that even he couldn't rationalize his past decisions, he had shrugged his shoulder and told her that he didn't know many of his reasons either. And while he had felt inadequate, not for the first time in his life, she had simply smiled and moved on to another topic, accepting his apology with grace and more understanding than he deserved.

Tbc…


	5. Chapter 5

V

"Hi Samantha. Is it okay if we ask you a few questions?" Sara sat down opposite of the girl and placed her hands on the desk, trying to appear as harmless and open as she could. "The lady with you," Sara nodded towards the woman sitting next to Samantha Landworth, "is here to make sure that we treat you nicely, and that you understand our questions."

The girl nodded. With solemn eyes and a bleak expression she reminded Sara too much of a younger self. "Would you like some water, or maybe a soft drink? I think we have it stashed here somewhere."

"Apple juice?"

"Hmm," Sara hummed a little in thought, a soft smile playing on her lips. No need to be overbearing and exuberant. It would only be more uncomfortable for Samantha. "Let me go and check, okay?"

Seeing her slight nod Sara stood, and after enquiring if the child's advocate also wanted something she walked out of the room in search of the drinks.

---

"Sara?"

She turned and stood, waiting for Grissom to catch up from his observation point a few feet away. "I was on my way to get some juice and water, want some as well?" Not really waiting for a response, she continued to the break room.

He shrugged his shoulders in a mock exasperated way, said "Don't see why not," and caught up with her, ending up walking side by side.

"Found something new on the case?" As usual, she cut right to the case when it was work related.

"Actually, that's why I'm here. The blood you found on the wall is a match to the victim. It contained traces of Zoloft. She did see a psychologist, but since they aren't qualified to prescribe such medication…" One eyebrow was raised in typical Grissom style, and his hands fluttered somewhat in the air, a sure cue for Sara to cut in.

"… and we didn't find any drugs in her medicine cabinet or bathroom, it might not have belonged to her." She held up a glass in a silent question to Grissom. Upon his nod she poured some water and handed it to him. "Did you check if the husband has a prescription?"

"Brass did. No record of him ever having seen a psychiatrist, nor of any type of medication. He's as clean as a whistle."

Sara frowned and opened up a cupboard, taking out the last remaining ceramic mug and three plastic cups. "Hey, did Brass do a background check on the psychologist Jane was seeing? Perhaps he's not as clean as we think he is."

"He's working on it. What are you thinking?" The look on her face was one of trying to fit several pieces of the puzzle, creating missing ones by interpreting the evidence and ideas.

Sara turned to him, leaning her hip against the counter. "Perhaps she had an affair with him behind the suspect's back? It wouldn't be the first time for a woman who has been abused to seek love and affection, even respect, with another man. Maybe she was even thinking about leaving him."

Something was telling that there was a more personal side to that comment than she let on, but all he was willing to do right now was to file it away in his memory and continue with the case. "I'll see if Brass can come up with anything."

A short silence ensued, in which Sara filled the plastic cups with water, the pot with coffee. "Well, I'm about to head back and interview the daughter. Maybe she can help us." She resolutely handed the coffee to Grissom before picking up the remaining three cups and walked with long strides and straightened posture towards the interview room.

Just as she reached the door to the hallway she turned towards him, in response to her name.

"You…" His brow furrowed slightly and instead of talking, he took up the space in front of her.

He was close, too close for her liking. At least for the situation they were in. She didn't need the clichéd fluttering heartbeat and urge to cup his cheek while they stood in plain view of anyone who walked in the hallway. Sara took a deep breath, calming herself, trying to placate her erotic desires by silently telling them they could play out in her dreams. There was a girl back in questioning, and she was more important. "Something wrong?"

"Not wrong per se. I was wondering if maybe," His eyes flitted around the space around them, observing the emptiness with relief, then to the doorframe, floor, and finally at Sara's eyes. "If maybe you'd like to have dinner with me, tonight? Not breakfast. Dinner."

She couldn't contain her smile no matter how hard she tried. Which was not all that much, truth be told. Her bright and honest smile not only lit up her face, but also her eyes, and he wanted to kiss her right there and then, letting some of that exuberance slip into his soul and warm him even more than he already was.

"If I agree to a yes, would you do more than just look at me like I'm your next dinner?"

"What?" He was completely and utterly lost.

She chuckled and looked at him a last time. "See you at eight. Your place." And then she was out of the room.

Grissom threw a baffled look at the coffee that was still in his hand and brought it to his lips, inhaling that particular scent and grinning. Strong and fresh, just like Sara.

---

"Here you go." Sara placed the plastic cups on the table and sat down. Seeing that Samantha eyed the apple juice but made no move to actually pick it up, Sara picked up her own drink and took a sip, hoping that the girl would (subconsciously) follow her example.

It was always difficult, questioning a minor, especially one who had just lost her mother at such a tender age, but it might provide some helpful information to further incriminate the suspect. The fact that the suspect was the girl's father was weighing down all too heavily on Sara's mind.

---

Grissom sat back in his chair and tossed the note on his desk. Anger marred his face and his thumb rubbed the underside of his ring finger; a definite sign of frustration.

"The bastard. That god damn selfish bastard." Sara stood from the chair she had only come to recently occupy and paced the room. "He killed his wife, and now this?"

For one absurd moment, Grissom worried that she would grab the glass jars from the shelves and hurl them one by one at the wall.

"Ecklie didn't even page us! Don't tell me he didn't know that this was our case. The moment they found their bodies, we should have been notified!" She wearily sank back into the chair, throwing her head back and closing her eyes.

Several long, silent seconds later she looked him straight in the eye. "He killed her. He killed his wife, and instead of facing the consequences, he takes the coward's way out. And takes his daughter with him the moment she comes home. I just…Bastard." She trailed off and shrugged, unable to voice her anger and disappointment and pain.

"I know." The bottle of scotch in the bottom drawer of his desk almost seemed to be calling their names, but he resisted the temptation.

"Alcohol isn't really the best way to forget, is it?"

He had an inkling of where this was going, and he wasn't sure that he was entirely comfortable with it. "Forget what?"

"Samantha. The past. My dad."

His lips parted as he tried to come up with an answer, but it only resulted in a shifting of jaws as he mulled over the words. "I don't have an answer for that, Sara."

She nodded. "I know. I didn't expect you to have an answer, actually."

For a while, silence reigned king in the office.

"Well, perhaps you have to find a diversion." The words were soft spoken and gently optimistic, not an admonishment but rather a kind repeat of words spoken so long ago. A quick look at his watch and he looked at Sara again. "Shift's over."

"Yeah." She grabbed her purse and stood.

With his hands lightly folded on the desk, he looked up at her. "Come home with me."

"Grissom," Sara shook her head lightly, "I won't make for particularly good company right now."

"I know", and he smiled lightly. "Neither will I. But we can try, can't we? I think there's some of that cheesecake leftover in the fridge from last time."

"And?"

"It's waiting for you to finish it."

"Grissom…" She was weary and tired and again disillusioned in mankind. Her previous manners of coping hadn't had the desired effect, perhaps it was time for a change.

She sighed in mock exasperation as she saw him pout mockingly. "Alright, alright. I'll come over." Walking towards the closed door, she turned around. "See ya in 30. And you'd better have enough cheesecake left."

Finis.


End file.
